I Texted My Ex-Wife But Ran From Her Mother
Survival kicked in.
The corner intersection didn’t look familiar. Neither did the small gas station I was parked in front of. I didn’t know the man inside or the brand of coffee he hawked. But I recognized the welcome sign across the road. Complete with Rotary Club gears and Freemason plaques, it seemed all were welcome.
I wondered if I was the exception.
I sipped my coffee. It tasted lukewarm and stale, though the gas I spilled on my hand did its best to distract from its smell. Not that it mattered, as I blankly stared at the sign. A city a thousand miles away, yet I could visit it in my mind should the desire arise.
It never did.
In the passenger seat, my cell phone. I’d toyed over what to do when I saw the city name pop up on the map. I hadn’t planned to drive through it. After touring the country for nine months with two dogs and a camper, I’d stopped looking too far ahead. I’d take back roads and explore landscapes hiding behind interstates and sound barriers.
Funny the places you end up when you have no intentions of where to go. Wood from a shipwreck goes where the ocean takes it. I washed up on the shores of a splintered past and didn’t know what to do.
